


Caged Bird

by bukkunkun



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Wings, Book Reliant, F/M, Human Trafficking, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Mama bear toothiana, Stockholm Syndrome, Underage - Freeform, bukkun writing fics aside from cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bukkunkun/pseuds/bukkunkun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lima-Stockholm syndrome AU. </p><p>Pitch is a collector. One day he finds his biggest find yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Purchase

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Shunichi Miyamoto's Caged Bird. Bukkun writing AU's aside from Cas because really, winged!AUs are the best don't deny it.
> 
> Please enjoy. May contain underage sex later on.
> 
> I have no regrets.

Pitch Black knew how to appreciate beauty. He knew what to look for in order to find only the most beautiful of things.

The accurate cuts of a million-dollar gemstone, the worn-away markings of a master craftsman's signature stamp at the bottom of a priceless Ming vase, the symmetry in the shape of a most elegant steed—the list was endless, but rarity was something that ruled out even the beauty in things.

Although seemingly trifle, he had in his possession one of the precious few original copies of Nostradamus's _Les Propheties_. He had the last species of _Rafflesia_ growing in his collection greenhouse. There was the true painting of Van Gough's _Starry Night_ , and the actual handwritten copy of Edgar Allan Poe's _The Raven_.

He was a collector, and a damn good one at that. Filthy rich from the moment he pulled himself out of hell, Pitch Black collected what the world saw as beautiful and made sure it would not see the light of day again (figuratively speaking of course, how else would the _Rafflesia_ grow and stay alive?), hiding it from the world, shrouding its beauty in his huge, dark mansion in Glasgow, perched at the top of towering cliffs that daunted even the bravest man from the nearest town.

He was called the Nightmare King—fittingly, of course. What he did with his collections was an absolute nightmare for those who loved beauty as much as he did; for he hid it from the world, far from anyone who would ever want to see it.

Estranged, he lived by himself in the big, big mansion, with only a young man as his companion, snarky talk and sharp tongue all but pleasing company, who took care of his growing collection in exchange for simple food and shelter. There was no one who dared approach him, to treat him as a friend, for as much as he was _good_ at what he was doing, he was all but friendly, and that was more than enough to drive even the occasional unsuspecting tourist away from his mansion.

Not that Pitch cared, of course. All he yearned for, all that he lived for was his collection.

Which brings him to the present; standing by himself in some far too sunny and hot and dry market in the Philippines, where everything was ridiculously priced. Grumbling to himself, he shifted from foot to foot, impatiently waiting for a nearby auction to start not too far away in a (mercifully air-conditioned) auction house right next to the market, standing proud and tall, clean white walls a stark contrast to the market that surrounded it like a disease. He spared a glance around the place, a disinterested look on his face as he idly thought about his collection he had left with that boy Angus back in Scotland—was that foolish boy watering the plants? It cost him hundreds and thousands of dollars just _procuring_ them from the sanctuaries.

Barters in the market were hollering left and right, and Pitch frowned, his brow creasing as he tried to block out the sound of yelling that sent his ears ringing. Gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the calls, but then his eyes widened when he heard something familiar.

“ _Taong-ibon! Taong-ibon!_ ”

In the years he had spent collecting the beautiful, the rare and the exotic, he had learnt a few key terms that he was to listen out for—he never imagined hearing something like _that_ in a place like this. He turned his head and looked straight at he barter, who, infuriatingly, was smirking at him like he had been calling that at the man on purpose. Pitch, his face perfectly stone-cold and expressionless, approached the man, whose grin widened as he approached.

“Hello.” He greeted; no cheer in his voice at all, crossing his arms. “I heard you have a ‘bird-person’ in your possession?”

“Ah, yes. The _taong-ibon_?” the man grinned, rubbing his hands together. “Expensive. Very expensive, but I know you can afford it, sir.” He nodded, “Yes, yes. You want to see?”

Pitch regarded him with a steely gaze but on the inside interest was stirring up inside him. The very being he was looking for… could it be…?

He nodded, and the man turned around and gestured for Pitch to follow him. They walked through a labyrinth of stalls and walls and dead ends, and rotting wood and rusting metal roofs, but soon they walked into a _different_ kind of marketplace—it was dark, covered-up from the world. A smirk crossed Pitch’s face.

Now, this. _This_ was _his_ kind of world.

“I highly doubt this is anything legal,” he spoke up, and the man looked back at him, snickering.

“Black market.” He replied, “I know who you are, Nightmare King.” He said, and Pitch raised a fine eyebrow.

“Am I known, now?” He asked.

“Sellers have to know their buyers,” the man grinned, before leading Pitch to a secluded area; where there was a _large_ cage covered in—of all things—silk.

This caught Pitch’s attention, him coming to a full stop as soon as the entire cage came into view, as the man approached the cage, a proud smirk on his face.

“ _Taong-ibon_ , Nightmare King.” He grinned at Pitch. “I think you will love this.”

He pulled the silk off with a flourish, and a loud gasp was audible. Pitch’s eyes widened to see a young woman crouched over at the far corner of the cage where it was pressed right next to a miserable-looking wall, looking at him over her shoulder with wild, frightened eyes the shade of the most vibrant violet it reminded Pitch of a few gemstones he had back at home.

She had a tattered cashmere shawl tossed over her shoulders, hiding her body from him, but the tell-tale bright blue-and-green feathers poking out from the end of the cloth told him exactly what he needed to know. Her headdress, _oh_ , that headdress, made of now-dirtied vibrant green feathers was titled to the side slightly, where her jet-black hair could be seen, messy and all over the place.

He knew what she was.

“The Sisters of Flight are in hiding,” he smirked, walking closer to the cage, and the woman’s eyes widened. She squirmed to get even further away from him, whimpering slightly as she crammed into the corner a bit more—but strangely she never pressed herself fully against it. Pitch raised an eyebrow at this but approached anyway, curling his thin fingers around the bars to lean close to the cage. The woman was still far from him, but the distance was enough for him to engage in conversation. “What poor, unfortunate soul are you to have been caught like this?” he pressed on, smirking. “Tell me your name, you unfortunate fae.”

“I will reveal nothing to you,” she spat at him, but then the man selling her grabbed at her shawl and pulled it off, revealing to Pitch her folded wings—beautiful and majestic as he heard about them, a pair of double-wings that were deep green with a blue-violet sheer— _beautiful_.

They immediately folded over her protectively, and Pitch looked at her actions curiously.

“Are you hiding something there?” he asked, cocking his head as he inspected her wings—one of them was broken. Pitch looked at the man, distaste clear on his face. “While this, I know, is a genuine Sister of Flight, you cannot honestly ask me to purchase damaged goods.” He frowned at the man.

The seller shook his head adamantly, waving his hands as if to dispel Pitch’s doubts. “No, no! Not the woman I sell, but the ones she is holding.” He grinned, grabbing his staff with a hook pitifully duct-taped to the end, and reaching it into the woman’s cage and forcing her wings and arms away from whatever it was she was hiding.

She yelled out in protest, fighting against the hook, but the man stabbed her arm with its end, earning him a gasp of pain, and reluctantly, the Sister of Flight relented, allowing them to pull her hand and wing away to reveal two pairs of wings folded over, one dark gray and the other pure white.

“You have daughters,” Pitch smirked, earning him a glare from the woman, and his smirk only grew. “So _they’re_ what you’re selling.” He turned to the man, who grinned at him.

“You can have all three of them, set.” The man said, nodding, “Mother, children, seventy-five hundred thousand dollars.”

“Nonsense,” Pitch scoffed, “The mother is of no use to me. She is damaged.”

This earned him a hiss from the woman, and suddenly, she charged at him from inside the cage, her hand shooting out to swipe at Pitch’s face. His eyes widened and he pulled back, surprised, as the seller fought her back, yelling at her in his native language, as he poked and prodded at her with his hook. She backed away, still glaring at Pitch, her eyes ablaze with anger and rage.

“Right,” Pitch said after a while, smoothening down his clothes, “What happened to her mate?”

“No idea, probably dead.” The man shrugged. “When we poached, there were only three full-growns there. The rest, children. They flew away fast, but we got these three.”

When the man had mentioned the mate was dead, Pitch noticed the Sister of Flight gasp into her dainty little hands, her eyes wide with grief, and he heard her breathe a name, “ _North…_ ”

Eyebrow raised, Pitch walked around the cage to get a better view of her children—and his eyes widened when he saw that there was only one daughter. The other one was a boy—the one with pure white wings, sleeping peacefully next to his sister, who was curled up next to him, the two siblings comforting each other with their mere presence as they slept.

A male Sister of Flight. How curious; the sons of this beautiful race were wingless—yet, there was this anomaly. This beautiful, pure white anomaly.

Rare. And most of all, beautiful. Immaculately pure and white, Pitch watched the beautiful young boy sleep peacefully, spooned around his little sister. _The image of innocence_ , Pitch mused to himself, perfectly aware of the Sister of Flight’s horrified face as she noticed him inspecting her children. _Such beauty… such rarity…_

_I want it._

As the woman dove for her children, in a vain attempt to shield them from Pitch’s gaze, Pitch made his decision.

He turned to face the seller.

“Give me the boy.”

* * *

The Sister of Flight’s shrieks and pleas fell to deaf ears as her beautiful, beautiful son was pulled away from her grasp, the boy struggling in powerful hands as he was forced away from his mother’s embrace, big globules of tears rolling down his youthful face as he screamed for his mother desperately to save him.

There was nothing Toothiana could do but to watch her beloved son being pulled away from him, and being forced unceremoniously into a sack, where he kicked and struggled—oh, how he had put up a fight—but to no avail. He was still a child, still so young and weak compared to all those evil men outside, especially the one watching over the entire thing, the man Toothiana heard her captor call the Nightmare King.

Oh, Jack, her dear, precious Jack. What was going to happen to him in that man’s clutches?

Beside her, her younger daughter, dear little Katherine had woken up from the lack of her brother’s presence by her side. Her tiny hand wrapped around her mother’s wrist and she looked up at her curiously, but then she saw her brother being put into the sack, and her eyes widened, as her mouth opened to let out a most heartbreaking shriek.

“Jack!” she screamed, reaching out of the bars desperately to reach for her brother, her little hand spread so wide, so hopefully to reach her brother being taken away from her. “Please! Give my brother back!” she begged, but then that man, that _infuriating_ man, approached them, a most patronising smirk on his face as he laid his hand on Katherine’s messy dark gray hair.

“Say goodbye to your dear brother, my girl.” He smirked down at her. “It will be the very last time you shall see him.”

“No!” Katherine screamed, shaking her head wildly, scratching at the man’s hand. “No, no, no!” she struggled in her mother’s embrace, Toothiana holding her back to keep her from hurting herself as the Nightmare King man grinned down at them, cruelty on his face as Toothiana shielded her sobbing little girl from the man.

“Monsters,” he chuckled fondly, shaking his head, looking down at them, and Toothiana bristled with anger, her feathers jostling in fury.

“No.” She replied, “It is _you_ who is the monster.” She spat at him, before turning away from him to comfort her little Katherine, whose tender little heart tore in two seeing men taking her brother away. “Leave us be,” she shakily told him, tears ready to stream down her face. “Leave us be; but I beg you, Nightmare King,” she looked right into the man’s eyes, brave and undoubting, much like her kind, “Please do not harm my son.”

“He is a precious part of my collection. It would be a sin to harm him.” The man grinned. “Good day.” He nodded, turning to leave—

“Living beings are not objects to be trifled with.” Toothiana spoke up. “Mother Nature will have her revenge.”

The man smirked at her over his shoulder

“Well then, I await Mother Nature with baited breath.” He chuckled in reply, before walking away.

All Toothiana could do was watch.

But she knew, deep inside, that her time to strike back will be _soon_.

She _will_ have her son back.


	2. Barriers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pitch discovers something new about his pet.
> 
> It's not very pleasant.
> 
> Or is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angus baby, stop being a cockblock. Thank.
> 
> Basically, this was what I was doing while I was waiting for Cas to finish writing his North chapter for Water Below Zero.
> 
> Once again, I have no regrets.

The boy was skittish. And noisy.

Pitch paced aimlessly around his study, eyeing the boy inside the personally-made ivory-white birdcage he had made _years_ ago when he heard about the Sisters of Flight. He was expecting a lovely young lady to occupy the cage, but the boy, that beautiful, pure anomaly was just as good—if not, _better_ than what he was expecting. It was a dream come true for Pitch—his biggest find yet, the rarest of the Sisters of Flight, a young boy of that beautiful, majestic race that wasn’t even meant to be. As much as he enjoyed his find, however, there was still something bothering him.

Eyebrow raised as he sipped at the red wine in the wineglass, he heavily sat himself down on an armchair right across the cage where he could see the boy (mercifully Angus had found a spare set of ironically white clothes that didn’t fit him, and he had those on the boy, but sadly, he and Angus were the same size and so they fit him rather poorly, hanging off his thin frame, white shorts hanging low on his waist, shirt hanging off one shoulder, held up only by the pristine white wings that were poking out of cut holes at the back of the shirt) fly about the cage, inspecting it in a panicked manner, fear clear in his pure ice-blue eyes as he flew up from the intricate wooden perch high above his head and back down to the floor of the cage, where it was meticulously covered in pillows and mattresses. Pitch had made sure that the boy would never so much as _touch the ground_ now that he was his.

Watching him carefully, though, Pitch silently appreciated the innocent beauty of the winged boy inside the cage—pure, unblemished white skin, still so smooth to the look (and hopefully, touch) like it had not known the horrors of black market cages, full, peach-coloured lips parted ever so slightly, unnoticed in the midst of the boy’s state of panic, pure silver hair—an albino gene gone wrong, perhaps?—sticking up in cute spikes, looking so soft to the touch, Pitch’s hands itched to run through them, as much as he wanted to touch the boy’s pristine white wings, down feathers soft as air, elegant and innocent in all the right ways that the dark monster within Pitch ached to ruin it all, mark and brandish them as _his_ and his alone.

He cleared his throat after a while, uncomfortable with all his dark, lustful thoughts—he would go through this _slowly_ —and the boy held still, perfectly still as his wild, fearful eyes looked straight into Pitch’s golden ones.

“What is your name, boy?” he asked, and the boy merely blinked at him, cocking his head. Pitch blinked back at the boy, surprised. “… I thought the Sisters of Flight knew all the languages of the world… how could you not understand even common English?”

The boy looked at him, suddenly very fearful, and he moved back, away from the bars and dove into a pile of blankets. His wings were still poking out above the pile, making his placement painfully obvious, but oddly it made the boy seem all the more innocent with his actions.

Pitch found his mouth going dry.

Blinking in alarm at the sudden realisation, Pitch shook his head to clear it of such thoughts, getting up from his seat. The boy whimpered audibly as Pitch walked over to him, his footsteps ringing loud and clear in the crisp air of Pitch’s study, and he hid even further into the sheets, shaking terribly as Pitch approached the bars of the cage. Wrapping his hand around the bar, Pitch regarded the trembling boy underneath the sheets (and vaguely wondered what he would look like if he was tangled in Pitch’s deep black satin sheets, panting and tired… Pitch stopped himself before he could think of anything further) as faintly he could hear Angus working outside in the garden, the _snip, snip_ of garden shears audible through the open window.

“What is your name?” he tried again, and the boy didn’t reply. “I own you now, don’t pretend or I _will_ have you broken.”

The boy said nothing, and hid even further beneath the sheets. Pitch sighed. Clearly English was not working. He only knew so many languages. Eyeing the boy tiredly, he racked his brain for ideas; for anything, anything…

Ah, _yes_. The boy’s sister had called out a name, it was in the language of the Sisters of Flight but he could somehow mimic it.

“Jack?” he tried and the boy immediately froze in his spot. Pitch watched as the boy lifted the sheet slightly to look up at him, surprise clear on his face. “Ah, so your name is Jack. That makes everything much easier.” He nodded, kneeling down to look the boy in the eye. “Let’s try something different.”

“ _Je suis votre propriétaire_.” He ventured, and the boy blinked at him blankly, sitting up slowly as the sheet slid down his shoulders, pulling down with it the sleeve, exposing the boy’s creamy white shoulder, completely unblemished and perfect, the boy’s collarbone also exposed, just as pure and clean as his shoulder.

Pitch couldn’t help but stare. The boy was _beautiful_.

Shifting uncomfortably in Pitch’s hard stare, the boy pulled up his sleeve, snapping the man out of his trance as the boy shuffled backwards, away from him, folding his wings protectively around himself.

“Ah, right. Not French then. _Yo soy tu dueño._ ”

The boy still did not react. Pitch groaned, rolling his eyes as he slapped his forehead, and the boy winced at his actions, gingerly reaching out to him, saying something softly. Despite not being able to understand the dialect the boy was speaking (the language of the Sisters; while to some just hearing it was pure delight, to Pitch it was rather annoying. He couldn’t understand what the boy’s words were; and that proved to be quite the barrier between them) he somehow managed to understand that the boy was apologising.

“Jack, was it?” he sighed, looking down at the boy, who flinched at the mention of his name, before inching even further away. “Jack, you?” he asked, pointing at the boy, and the boy blinked at him for a moment, before slowly nodding. “Alright.” He sighed, looking around. “Let me try something else… _taong-ibon_?”

No reaction.

“… This is proving more taxing than I thought. Asking Angus for help is out of the question.” He grumbled, and Jack looked up at him worriedly, clearly wondering if he was making him angry.

Well, he _was_ , but really, it wasn’t his fault.

“ _Ptitsa rebenka_?” he asked, and at once, Jack perked up, his eyes widening.

“ _Da, da_!” Jack smiled brightly, nodding wildly, happy all of a sudden, and the boy rushed forward to the bars, chattering happily in Russian—but then he stopped short and immediately shied away, looking back at Pitch like he was devil.

Although, in this context, yes he was.

“So, you speak Russian, of all things.” Pitch sighed, shaking his head, ignoring Jack’s erratic changes in his actions. “How on Earth are we going to communicate, then?”

“You really don’t have to,” Angus spoke up from outside, and Pitch looked up from where Jack was to look out the window, where the young redhead stood, arms akimbo, his red jacket slung over his shoulders as he looked up at his master, waving his garden shears to and fro. “I thought you were going to keep him as a pet or something.”

“Well, training him should be quite appropriate, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, well aren’t you going to hide him away from the world anyway?”

Pitch cast a glance at Jack, who had somehow calmed down and was now staring at him with large, curious eyes.

“This beautiful thing?” he asked, smirking slightly, walking over to Jack, who immediately scampered to the back of the cage, away from Pitch, clutching the sheets close to himself. “ _Vy krasivaya sokrovishch_?”

Jack blinked at him owlishly, and a blush spread across his previously snow-white cheeks like wildfire, painting them a pretty shade of pink that looked rather fetching on him as behind him his wings puffed up, flustered, folding behind him as neatly as he could. He mumbled something unintelligible and he hid underneath the sheet. Pitch smirked and reached for the boy through the slim white bars. He had them made thin for elegance, and so that the bars were wide enough for him to easily reach in. Gently, his touch feather-light, Pitch stroked Jack’s warming cheek with the backs of his fingers, earning him a tiny gasp of surprise from the boy, and he unconsciously leant in to Pitch’s touch.

“Yes.” He murmured, growing bolder as he spread his hand over the boy’s smooth, smooth cheek, fingers sensually running over virgin skin. Pressing his palm to Jack’s cheek, he pulled the boy in, and enamoured, Jack followed his touch, scooting forward towards Pitch. “You beautiful thing. So clean and pure.”

“ _Krasivyy_.” He murmured, and Jack let out a breathless sigh, his eyes slipping closed as he leant into Pitch’s touch. “You look so starved for touch, Jack. I wonder why?” he said out loud, leaning forward to inspect the boy as his small hands came up to hold Pitch’s in place as he gently rubbed his cheek against it.

Breathlessly, Jack spoke in his mother language, and once again, Pitch understood nothing, but he moved his hand down Jack’s face to stroke the boy’s soft, soft lips.

He had thought about this for a while, ever since he had heard of the Sisters of Flight. Their men were flightless, basically human, just like the rest of the men in the world, so it would be natural for humans to interbreed with the Sisters. He had imagined what it would be like in the company of a Sister of Flight; imagining her beautiful wings spread wide as they intertwined in bed, her face contorted with lust as he pleasured her endlessly throughout the night…

But then came the issue of pregnancy. He wanted a pet, something to toy with, not a pest problem.

But then here was this beautiful young boy, wings pure and white as an angel’s, a face more innocent than a child’s, and oh-so-deliciously touch-starved it was driving Pitch mad just thinking about how the boy would thirst for his touch.

Jack looked up at him past white eyelashes, ice-blue eyes wide with such pure innocence it had Pitch’s loins stirring to life.

“What shall I do with you, you precious little thing?” he murmured, and Jack murmured something back in Russian, his soft voice heady and clearly delirious as the boy’s lips brushed against Pitch’s fingers as he spoke. The winged boy blinked at him, his wings fluttering slightly behind him as he shifted forward until his small hands wrapped around the bars. “Should I deflower you? Use you how I had intended with a Sister of Flight?”

Once again, the boy spoke, and this time in his mother tongue, and still Pitch could not understand anything. There were far more barriers between him and his boy; but no matter, it was an issue that can be easily addressed to.

Words weren’t necessary in the fulfilment of carnal desires.

Jack softly kissed the tips of Pitch’s fingers as they moved along his peach lips, and the man smirked at the subconscious attention his _pet_ was giving to him. Slowly, oh so very slowly, his hand trailed lower, down smooth, smooth skin over Jack’s chin, tracing lightly along the boy’s lower jaw, and lower, down a creamy white neck, tracing the boy’s jugular—

And a bird-like screech tore through the air, and Pitch quickly pulled back as Jack grabbed at his throat, fingers splayed and pinkish white nails brandished like claws. They swiped at the empty space where Pitch’s throat was, barely missing by a fraction of an inch. Pitch stared wide-eyed at the boy, who was panting; his arm still outstretched out of the bars, his ice-blue eyes wild and burning with a flame he didn’t realise was there before.

They stared at each other in stunned shock for a long time; and soon Pitch’s surprise melted away with the adrenaline now running through his system—this boy, _his_ boy, had tried to kill him. He had almost succeeded.

How very _thrilling_.

Pitch’s look of shock melted into a smirk and he began to laugh, shakily at first, but then in grew in strength, and Jack look up at him, his eyes clearly filling with worry as Pitch kept laughing. The winged boy lowered his arm—

And Pitch suddenly grabbed it by the boy’s thin wrist. Forcefully, Pitch pulled Jack to the bars until he was painfully pressed against the thin white metal. The winged boy let out cries and whimpers of pain and protest, but that only fuelled Pitch’s heating blood more, and the man grabbed the boy’s other wrist and had it join its counterpart in Pitch’s iron grip.

“Oh, breaking you will be _fun_ , I can see it now,” Pitch chuckled darkly, leaning in close to hiss in the boy’s ear. The shiver he elicited from Jack was _delicious_ and he found himself craving for more. “How hard you’ll struggle when I take you—when I _fuck you until you bleed_ ,” he laughed darkly, almost cruelly, before taking Jack’s chin with his free hand and forcibly bringing their lips together. Jack protested; his cry muffled as Pitch devoured his virgin mouth, a dominating mouth pressed against soft pink flesh, taking and plundering with all the force of a madman, accompanied with the slightest pinch of sharp teeth.

“ _Nyet_ ,” Jack pleaded into the man’s mouth when Pitch momentarily pulled away for air, but when he opened it, Pitch forced his tongue inside and began to explore the boy’s mouth. Weakly, he struggled against Pitch’s iron grip on his wrists as the man swallowed up his protests. “ _Stoy! Stoy!_ ” he begged, trying to shake his head free, but Pitch’s grip on his head was unrelenting and firm, bordering on painful.

“Pitch Black!” Angus’s voice boomed throughout the entire mansion, and Pitch pulled away, Jack letting out a gasp from his wet, swollen lips. “Your brother’s here!”

“ _Sanderson_ ,” Pitch spat, distaste clear in his tone, and he looked down at Jack, who was panting in his place, his eyes wide with fear. A smirk crossed Pitch’s face. Fear looked good on this boy. _Very_ good. “I’m coming!” he yelled back, before forcefully tossing Jack backwards into his cage, causing the boy to fall down on the pillow-full floor of his birdcage. “ _Ostanovitʹsya_ ,” he barked at the boy, before standing up and striding confidently away.

He made sure to slam the door behind him as he left.

Jack winced as he sat up, fear growing in his heart, its roots digging into every fibre of his being.

He had done what he was sure his mother would have done—fight back, but it didn’t work; he was too slow, he didn’t manage to kill that cruel, cruel man—and now, there was _this_ …

Trembling, Jack gingerly touched his lips. He was so _scared_. What was that man going to do with him?

Looking down at his hands, Jack’s heart sank further when he saw bruises beginning to blossom on his pale skin around his wrists. His face hurt from where the man was holding it in place.

“Mother,” he whimpered, curling up into a ball in the middle of the cage as he shook, tears falling from his eyes. “Mother… I’m so scared…” he whispered, gingerly kissing his bruises like how his mother did when he got hurt. “That man… that horrible, horrible man… I don’t know what he’ll do to me,” he unfurled his wings over himself like a protective barrier to comfort himself, pretending it was his mother’s wings over him, shielding from the horrors of the world and not his own. “Mother, Father… I need you two, _please_.” His voice shook, and he choked on his saliva as he continued to cry.

He remembered the man’s name, though (called by another voice that sounded young—was there another person around?), and that somehow lifted his spirit slightly—not with joy but with the burning determination of a blooded Sister of Flight.

“Mother… help me, please.” He whispered reverently, though tears still fell from his eyes. “Curse this Pitch Black,” he pleaded through grit teeth, “Curse him to die a most painful death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Okay, maybe I do have some regrets.)
> 
> There are way too many language clips here it's making me so angry I ever thought of using language as a barrier, but w/e.
> 
> Je suis votre propriétaire (French) - I'm your owner  
> Yo soy tu dueño (Spanish) - I am your master  
> taong-ibon(Filipino) - Bird-person  
> Ptitsa rebenka (Russian) - Bird child  
> Vy krasivaya sokrovishch (Russian) - You beautiful treasure  
> Krasivyy (Russian) - Beautiful  
> Ostanovitʹsya (Russian) - Stay
> 
> So, apparently Pitch knows bits and pieces of Russian. Well done, Pitch.
> 
> (He's a brit here tho thank)


	3. So a Deal is Struck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pitch finds a rather unwilling accomplice to further understanding his beautiful little pet.
> 
> His brother's not too happy about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slipping this in juuuuust before I sign off the Internet. I'm on holiday right now, and this'll be the last update before Christmas (when we go home from the holiday), so yep.
> 
> Still waiting for Cas on Shining, Shimmering, Splendid. Wait for it! :D
> 
> I still have no regrets.

_The master’s in a fit_ , the young redhead thought to himself as he watched his employer storm down the corridor, a passive look on his face as his amber eyes followed Pitch as the man passed him by. “Pitch?” He called out, and the man whirled around to glare at him. “I’ll be getting the Margaux ‘95?” He asked, and Pitch blinked at him for a moment. He sighed. “The one you always force down Mr. Mansnoozie’s throat?” he ventured, and that was when Pitch nodded.

“Ah, yes. That one, right. Go.” He dismissively waved at Angus, and the young Scotsman grinned.

“Dove-boy caught your tongue, _sir_?” he teased, and Pitch glared at him.

“Romane Conti ’97.” The man curtly replied. “Get that one.” He simply said, and Angus gaped at him.

“Wait, wait, wait—that’s the most—”

“ _Angus_.” Pitch growled at the teen, and immediately the redhead backed off, raising his hands defensively as his amber eyes widened at his employer’s unusually riled behaviour. “Get the wine. We will be meeting at the sitting room.”

“Right,” the redhead replied without a second thought, nodding. “Y-yeah, right away…” quickly, Angus turned on his heel, his red jumper tied around his waist fluttering behind him as he moved. The faster he got away from the temperamental man, the better, he thought, panicked as he rushed to the wine cellar.

Pitch rolled his eyes at his young assistant, shaking his head as he watched Angus’s wild mop of fire-red hair disappear around a corner, before he continued down his way down the corridor, desperate to control his raging emotions inside him—he now lusted after that beautiful boy much, much more than he had expected; Jack’s attempt at murdering him was far too _delicious_ to him that it was bordering on worrying—but then again, was he ever _normal_?

Pushing a pair of double-doors wide open, he strode into the sitting room, where, as he expected, his brother already sat, smiling at him that absolutely _infuriating_ smile—so passive, so kind and understanding—it drove Pitch _up the wall_ just thinking about it; seeing it just made his mood all the worse.

“Sanderson,” he curtly greeted, and the blonde man (much, much smaller in stature than he was, but the both of them knew which of them was elder) nodded at him kindly—almost _reverently_. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, sitting down on the armchair right across the antique loveseat his brother had seated on.

“I wanted to see you,” the man replied simply, still smiling at him in spite of his actions towards him. “I wanted to see how the family business is going—how your collection is going. I heard from that nice boy Angus that corpse flower is doing well—”

“ _Sanderson_.” Pitch growled, and the blonde man fell silent, his smile disappearing to give way to a light frown.

“Oh, Pitch. Still so cold-hearted, even after all these years,” he sighed, shaking his head. “And how many times have I told you to call me Sandy?” the blonde smiled at him weakly, but he flinched when Pitch scoffed at the mention of the man’s childhood name for him.

“We are no longer brothers in name,” Pitch replied tersely, as Angus walked into the room with a bucket filled with ice with a bottle of red Burgundy cooling inside, slung over his arm. In his hands were two wineglasses. “Angus.” He said the teen’s name more for the sake of breaking the ice between him and his brother rather than to greet him. He gestured vaguely at the table between their seats and Angus set the bucket and glasses down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wine-opener, before making a move to open the bottle, when Sandy stopped him, a gentle hand on his wrist and an even gentler smile on his face.

“It’s alright,” the man said to Angus, “Run along now; we’ll take care of this.”

Angus cast a glance at Pitch, who glared at him— _stay put, you silly little boy_ , his eyes threatened at him, and the teen was slightly taken aback, but then he jolted slightly when he felt Sandy’s hand squeeze his wrist gently.

“ _Please_ ,” he pressed, gently but firmly. “I’m sure there are other things you need to tend to.” He said, before sending Pitch a look. Angus swallowed slightly, but decided to leave the corkscrew on the table, before turning on his heel and hastily making his exit. The two brothers watched the redhead leave, before Pitch glared at Sandy.

“What are you up to?” he demanded, as Sandy calmly opened the bottle and poured himself and his brother a glass. “Answer me,” he pressed, and bristled as he watched Sandy carefully swirl the wine in the glass before taking a sip of it.

“I wanted to see you, that really was it,” Sandy replied, after smacking his lips to taste the wine. “French Burgundy?” he asked, and Pitch nodded, just slightly. “Ah, you broke out the old Romane Conti, didn’t you? Is there something special going on?” he chuckled, but his mirth withered at the look Pitch was giving him. The man’s golden eyes were pressing for answers to his questions, not offhanded comments about the wine. Sandy sighed—Pitch had never been the patient type. “I missed you, you know—I wanted to tell you about my new studies at the university, I wanted to hear about what has been going on with the company,” he shrugged, finally relenting to his brother’s impatience, “Everything’s been so fascinating; I wanted someone to talk to.”

“Please,” Pitch scoffed, “Why don’t you bother a pretty little thing at a pub or whatnot?” he rolled his eyes, “I don’t see why you would want to have _me_ , of all people, concerned.”

Sandy pouted at him. “What is a talk between brothers?” he asked, and Pitch glared at him, but he stood his ground. “And besides, someone with your kind of… _hobby_ may have encountered something related to my current project.” He took a drink of his wine and refilled it.

Pitch smirked, and leant back into his chair, burgundy liquid swirling in crystal as he moved. “You’re a historian, and a linguist, Sanderson.” Here, he relished the frown that crossed Sandy’s face, “What could be there that is of interest to someone with my, ah, _interests_?” he grinned, drinking from his glass as well, mirroring his brother’s movements, and refilling his wineglass.

Sandy shook his head, sighing. “Oh, I don’t know why I bother,” he murmured, taking another drink from his wineglass before continuing. “Do you know about the Sisters of Flight?”

Pitch’s ears perked up, and a grin crossed his face. Leaning forward to meet his brother square in the eye, he smirked. “Tell me more.”

Sandy raised an eyebrow at Pitch’s interest. “So you _have_ heard of them.”

“I may have heard a few things,” Pitch replied vaguely, inwardly cackling with glee—finally, someone who knew a thing or two about the Sisters, and it was his brother, no less. His less-than-legal purchase of a certain young winged boy would be more easily kept under wraps this way, he thought with glee. Oh, how well this was going to turn out! Maybe his brother _does_ have some use, after all. “Rumours. Whispers. Old wives’ tales.” He said, waving his hand as he drrank from his wineglass.

Sandy eyed him suspiciously, but he decided to continue. “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard that they’re a race of winged women,” he said, and smirking into his drink, Pitch nodded. “Their men are wingless, and they are known to be extremely beautiful with their double-wings and colourful eyes and feather-headdresses.”

“Beautiful, yes,” Pitch murmured in agreement, thinking back to Jack’s attempt at murdering him—one minute he was a pretty little helpless thing, all pretty big baby blues and quivering lips and unblemished alabaster skin—sweet, seductive and innocent; the next, a murderous gorgeousness that had no hesitation in ripping his throat out— _yes_ , so, so _beautiful_.

“They’re extremely adept at survival, and word has it they’re even magical.” Sandy hadn’t even noticed Pitch’s murmur, now too enamoured with his recounting to notice anything of such a minute detail.

“Magical, you say?” Pitch spoke up, catching Sandy’s attention. “What do you mean by magical?”

“It is said they can heal any illness, turn metals into gold,” Sandy replied, and Pitch blinked at him blankly.

“Ah, the usual rumours, then.” He simply stated, and Sandy laughed.

“Oh, no, there’s more than that. They can look into someone’s past using their teeth—baby teeth, extracted teeth, wisdom teeth, teeth that got knocked out in a fistfight, you name it—they can see memories that are stored inside them, I heard.” He grinned; delighted to see his younger brother taking interest in something he had studied. “They also have domain over the elements; fire, ice, water, dreams…” here, he paused for a moment, clearly contemplating something, but Pitch said nothing to allow the man to keep talking—it seems there is much, much more to Jack than a pretty little face and a deliciously delicate little body to use and abuse. He would have to take more than Jack’s precious little virginity—and that wasn’t a bad deal at all, he mused, very, _very_ pleased at what he was discovering, and he took another drink of his wine. “But, of course, these tales are only from old texts I found in a dig near a mountain named Punjam Hy Loo in Southeast Asia.”

“Funny how they seem to be true,” Pitch murmured, and Sandy cocked his head.

“I’m sorry?” he asked, and Pitch shook his head as Sandy took a drink as well.

“Never mind,” he dismissed, “Tell me, do you know of their language?”

“Oh, all I know is that no human has heard their language in hundreds of years,” Sandy grinned at him, “But I’m planning to change that,” he said confidently. “My team and I are going to the Philippines to search for them—and well,” Sandy smiled at him sheepishly, “That’s why I’ve come to see you today.”

Pitch sighed and shook his head. “I _knew_ you had a reason.”

“A perfectly good reason!” Sandy protested, a blush crossing his cheeks. “I came here to tell you I’m leaving for a while—maybe a month, or two, just so you’d know.” He replied, slumping back in his seat. “Although… people have dismissed the Sisters of Flight as simply mythical, but there have been reports…”

“There are _always_ reports,” Pitch dryly commented, and Sandy laughed, refilling their drinks.

“Now, _that_ is true,” he agreed, “But that just gives us reason to leave Glasgow to search for them. I’m _convinced_ they’re real.” Sandy blushed, peering at Pitch. “But… not a lot of people believe me. You must think I’m so silly for chasing after something like this—a fantastical fairy tale from Asia? Sounds like something out of an _Indiana Jones_ film.” He laughed self-depreciatingly as he finished off the wine in his wineglass in one go.

Pitch drank from his wineglass— _well done, Pitch Black,_ he thought smugly to himself—and smirked at his brother, all teeth and no mirth in them whatsoever.

“I believe you.” He said simply, lowering his own almost-empty wineglass. “Really, I do.”

“You do?” Sandy began to smile at him—but then it fell just as quickly as it came onto his face. “… You have something planned, don’t you?”

“Me?” Pitch grinned innocently, but Sandy shook his head.

“Oh, no,” he sighed, refilling his wineglass. “I’ve made you _want_ one Sister of Flight, haven’t I? Pitch, they’re practically _people_! They have their own civilisation—I know they’re half-bird, but for _crying out loud_ , Pitch, they’re not some kind of pet you can buy and keep in a cage for ever and ever like the other animals you have in here!”

 _Too late, Sanderson. Too late._ “Oh, can’t a man dream?” Pitch smirked, defensively shrugging, and Sandy scowled as Pitch refilled his own drink.

“Pitch, I am keeping a _good_ eye on you, I swear, if you—”

“Sanderson, as much as I regret telling you this—and frankly, I don’t,” Pitch cut him off; “I could not care less on what your opinion on me is. We aren’t brothers—we stopped being such silly things when Father died and left _me_ the family fortune, and _you_ ran away with your bastard mother,” Sandy flinched at his words, and that only egged Pitch on. “I only tolerate you because our blood dictates so—but don’t forget—we are _not_ brothers, Sanderson—you do not interfere with my business, and I _do as I wish_.”

Sandy shakily sighed, steadying himself, and Pitch smirked at his elder brother.

“Tell me, is your Russian still smooth?” he asked, and Sandy blinked at him, clearly thrown off-track with the sudden question.

“… Excuse me?” he asked, and Pitch’s snake grin widened.

“Answer the question, Sanderson.” He drawled, drinking from his wineglass.

“I’m still fluent in Russian, why?”

“Good,” Pitch nodded, lowering his drink. “Next question: are you willing to keep a secret?”

Sandy blinked at him. “A secret?” his eyes widened. “Pitch, don’t tell me, you…”

“ _Can you keep a secret_?” Pitch repeated; his voice a low growl as he glared at the elder man, and Sandy cautiously nodded. The glare immediately softened into a cool smirk and the black-haired man leaned in forward, invading his brother’s personal space. “Good. Swear you’ll keep it for the sake of Father’s blood in our veins?”

“… I swear,” Sandy replied, already regretting the words coming out of his mouth. Pitch leered at him, proud of what progress he was making.

“Then you’re in luck, Dr. Mansnoozie.” The black-haired man smirked, standing up and spreading his arms. “Cancel that trip to the Philippines.” He said, and Sandy’s eyes widened.

“You… _you_ …!” Sandy began to say, also getting up.

“Yes, I already did,” Pitch smirked triumphantly. “I’ll let you learn everything you need to know for your precious little study, and in return, you’ll have to teach someone English.”

Sandy looked up at Pitch. “The Sisters of Flight speak all the languages in the world, Pitch, if this is a trick…”

“Me, trick you?” the man scoffed, “I settle for nothing but the best; and besides,” he grinned, “Mine is a little more special than the others—this one is the rarest of his kind.”

Sandy bit his lip. This was his big chance—to meet an actual Sister of Flight, to learn _everything_ about them, but… He would have to keep such a terrible secret—he would have to keep his mouth shut about an innocent being held against its will at the hands of no less than the Nightmare King—his very own brother.

“Well, Sanderson?” Pitch smirked at him. “Do we have a deal?”

Sandy sighed; there was simply no way out of this, was there?

The line between academe and morality was fine—and right now, it looked non-existent in Sandy’s mind, but reluctantly he had reached a decision.

“You have a deal, Pitch.” He replied, his heart heavy, and Pitch’s grin widened. He shivered slightly and decided to speak up. “But, you have to promise me one thing. You must not harm that Sister of Flight. Do you understand me?”

“Me, harm one of my own collection?” Pitch smirked. “That is unheard of.”

Sandy looked at him, unsure. He knew Pitch took very good care of his collection—but this was a Sister of Flight—a mystical being that could very well pass off as a normal human being, it deserved to be free, in its home, not in a cage inside the Black manor. It wasn’t right.

Before he could say or think anything more of protest, however, Pitch’s arm was already around his shoulders and leading him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely no regrets. 
> 
> Also, here, Sandy's not mute, yay! And he's a PhD in Archaeology and Linguistics. Cool, huh? :D
> 
> (Okay, maybe a little with the language slip-up last chapter. Fixed it!)
> 
> Research the wines mentioned in this fic. Looking at their prices made me cry, they'll make you cry, too.


	4. Memory Soak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandy finally meets Pitch's new pet.
> 
> Toothiana reminisces on her husband.
> 
> Jack finds himself a new ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, God. Sorry this chapter's horrible. Oh, God.
> 
> THIS IS FULL OF REGRETS I'M GOMEN.

Sandy swallowed nervously—the years he had spent as a researcher had built up to this—this singular event where he actually _met_ a Sister of Flight. He was excited—of course he would be; he had waited for so long for this, but at the same time he was he held himself back as the feeling of regret hung heavily at the back of his throat.

However exciting as this entire thing was, he knew that what they were doing was illegal—an illegal purchase at the black market was dangerous all in itself; and now even his research is threatened at the notion of the Sister of Flight’s not-so-legal situation.

“Be careful,” Pitch spoke up, mockingly concerned, and Sandy looked up at his younger brother to see the man looking at the distant door leading to his private study, a far-off look on his face, both anticipating something and laced with the hint of something… was that lust Sandy could see on the man’s face? He didn’t want to think about it; just being with his brother at this moment in time was enough to wrack his nerves, what more knowing his thoughts. “The pretty little thing tried to kill me.” Sandy’s eyes widened in shock, and Pitch finally looked down at him, grinning wildly. “No guarantees he won’t do the same thing to you, and frankly, I’d rather not have a dead body to clean up later.”

Sandy tore his gaze away from his brother, his heart racing in his chest.

Okay, the Sister of Flight was even dangerous. Goodness, what had he gotten himself into? He should have left his RA Jamie a note he was going off to die at his brother’s mansion.

Gulping visibly, Sandy pointedly ignored his brother’s smirk at him and cast his glance elsewhere, and he spotted Angus leaning on a wall in a connecting hallway as they passed. The moment their eyes met, Sandy felt a chill go down his spine.

The redhead’s eyes were unnaturally… strange, somehow, hawk-like as the pair of amber orbs followed them as they passed. The teen mouthed something at him.

“ _He’s going to kill you_.”

Sandy bristled with alarm and made a move to reply, but Angus turned and walked away, as Pitch ushered him onwards when he faltered in his steps.

“No time to back down now, brother,” Pitch was saying as he was wheeled ever closer to the room. “We had an agreement.”

“I-I just,” Sandy began to say, but as Angus walked away, he faltered, and allowed his brother to push him along. “Oh, nevermind.”

The walk to the study was strangely much longer than necessary—Sandy’s nervousness made the five-minute walk seem to stretch on for an hour, and when they had reached the door, Pitch’s hand suddenly on his shoulder jolted him, earning him a self-proud grin on the man’s face. He decided to ignore it and opted to reach for the knob, but Pitch’s other hand snatched his wrist and pulled it away. The blonde glared up at his brother, and Pitch waved a finger in his face.

“You are going to teach this bird of mine English. In turn, you can learn whatever it was you needed. You have only two weeks.”

“Two weeks? Pitch, you can’t teach someone the entire English language in two weeks!” Sandy protested, but Pitch glared at him, effectively shutting him up. The blonde man frowned at him in response.

“Two. Weeks,” the man punctuated with two fingers, before smirking at the door. “Welcome to the biggest surprise of your life, Sanderson.”

He grasped the doorknob and turned it, the door creaking painfully loudly as he opened it, catching the attention of the Sister of Flight cooped up in a cage in the middle of the room. Sandy’s jaw fell slack at the sight.

* * *

The loneliness, the regret, the bitter, bitter feeling of defeat felt a sour taste in Toothiana’s mouth as in the hours that passed after her son was taken away from her, she cried—oh, how she sobbed—over the misery being forced on her.

The moment her dear little girl had calmed down, falling into a fitful sleep in her arms, dreaming of the loss of her most precious brother, he brave façade had fallen apart, crumbling to pieces as easily as the ruined walls of the old Temple of the Sisters in Punjam Hy Loo—being several thousand years old, they stood no chance against a slightly stronger than usual draft of wind.

Reality was such a cruel thing, she thought as she watched Katherine sleep in her embrace, having cried herself to sleep, thinking of her possibly forever-lost brother thousands of miles away, at the mercy of such a heartless man like the Nightmare King.

Her beautiful, beloved son; Jack, poor young Jack, still so young, still so pure and untainted by the world around him, stood no chance against the man, she knew. The dark lust she sensed in the man was fuelled by the raw innocence Jack emanated, burning dark flames burning higher and higher, more violently than the Sisters of Flight that lived up north, ever so associated with both ice and fire.

Wiping tears from her eyes, she looked up to the sky, counting stars and mapping out constellations to take her mind off things, but she could not help but remember what her captor had said regarding her mate.

_Probably dead. When we poached, there were only three full-growns there. The rest, children. They flew away fast, but we got these three._

Oh, North. Her beloved husband, gone from her forever, just like her son.

New tears stinging at her eyes, she hunched over her daughter, pulling her into a tight embrace to comfort her, but mostly to assure herself that she was still there. Her family was in pieces now, her son lost to a lustful man and her husband possibly killed and doomed to never reunite with her again.

She began to sob as the entire thing sunk into her, hopes of rescue, reconciliation and reunions fading into despair as they took root in her heart and dug deep, deep into her mind, tearing her heart apart as she thought of her husband and son, her tears wetting the tattered clothes on Katherine’s shoulder.

She could not fly; not with her wing in such a sorry condition. She was weak; her powers greatly diminished with the lack of nutrition and rest that she got. She could fight, yes, but she would not win, she was sure. She couldn’t risk an escape—not when she had Katherine with her, the poor child, she wasn’t old enough to learn how to harness her powers yet—she hadn’t been taught how yet.

Sighing, she stroked Katherine’s hair back and planted a feather-light kiss to her daughter’s forehead as she closed her eyes and thought about their home, so close yet so far away from them.

She thought about all the Sisters flying around the village, their mates walking along the dirt roads going about their usual business—logging, hunting, and the like, as above their heads the Sisters would educate each other on how to properly harness their gifts Nature had given to them.

Sighing, she settled next to her daughter as she thought about their life before being captured, Katherine flying off to the elders to learn while she and Jack stayed at home to do the daily chores.

Jack had been a mistake, according to the elders, an error that came to be because Toothiana had made the grave mistake of falling in love and mating with an outsider—a _foreigner_ , a man that would taint their blood with his alien blood. Upon his birth, their family was banished to the outermost area of the village—their little hut was the last house before the village ended to the forest. Their hut was practically right in the forest, different from the village, which existed in a clearing in the middle of the forest.

When Katherine was born, however, a nice _normal_ Sister of Flight, they were accepted, if somewhat, back into the village, and the elders allowed little Katherine to learn the languages of the world, and to control her powers. Jack was not allowed that luxury—simply living was most likely the only thing the elders granted him, and so Toothiana and her husband made up for what their boy was missing.

They taught him to hunt, to speak his father’s mother tongue, Russian, alongside his ethnic language, the Tongue of the Sisters. Toothiana, in secret, taught him to harness his powers, and the boy was a fast learner—he was granted control over ice, and he used his power well, cooling his family down during particularly harsh summers, albeit being a little uncontrolled with his powers.

Katherine was better off, still, despite Toothiana’s and North’s efforts. She, after all, had formal education, and Jack did not, but they loved their children equally. North especially made sure his son had felt loved. He made sure to be the best father one could ever be to his child.

“Oh, North,” Toothiana sighed, her thoughts wandering over to her husband, and a tear rolled down her cheek as she thought about him, melancholic. “Nicholas…”

Nicholas St. North was a most interesting man. Toothiana had met him when he had stumbled into the forest, injured and dying, bleeding from sustained wounds from a fight that had somehow landed him at the foot of their mountain. The elder Sisters had called for him to be executed, but Toothiana, ever the curious, brash young woman she was, opted to take care of the man, curious about the human world as he was curious of theirs.

Their mutual curiosity soon blossomed into friendly rivalry, and the two often bonded over clashing scimitars and sharpening knives. Friendly banter soon grew into hearty, and sometimes heated debates, and one evening of Toothiana’s season of inheritance, something in her snapped at the sight of Nicholas, grinning at her, his arm slung around the back of his seat, hand clasped around a clay bowl with water in it, as he laughed at something that she had said.

More animal than human, she did what her instincts told her to do—tackle the unsuspecting man to the ground of her hut, a surge of power washing over her as she overpowered him (and he still laughed at her, that handsome fool) and had her way with him in an impromptu binding that left her flustered with her actions after the entire thing had been done and their mess cleaned up.

Nicholas had called it carnal, instinctual attraction, to his quote, “irresistible attractiveness”, but Toothiana had chalked the incident up to something different; something she had harboured for the man ever since day one—

She had irrevocably fallen in love with him, and she will have him as her mate.

He, of course, after many times of her asking him, finally said yes, with a big grin on his face and his arms spread wide.

Their union, however, was something that wasn’t smiled upon in their village.

Katherine’s incoherent mumbling shook her out of her reverie and the woman looked down to see her daughter grasping her thumb in a gentle grip.

“Mommy,” she mumbled, snuggling closer to her in a fitful sleep. “Where’s Jackie? Where’s Jackie, mommy?”

Toothiana felt tears prickle her eyes and she smoothened her hand down Katherine’s messy hair.

“I’m so sorry, my baby. I’m so sorry,” she whispered, hugging her daughter close as she tried so very hard not to cry.

“And what about daddy, mommy? When is daddy coming back?”

Toothiana’s eyes widened, and at once she began to sob silently, her shoulders shaking as her broken wings sagged behind her, mourning the loss of her mate.

She didn’t even have the time to say goodbye.

* * *

A young boy, somewhere in his early teens (around 13 or 14, Sandy ventured) sat up in the middle of the pillow-laden bottom of the gigantic birdcage, dressed in loose white clothing that constantly slipped off his thin shoulders, showcasing pure creamy white skin that looked soft to the touch, complementing his snow-white hair that stood up in spikes that seemed appropriate for a boy his age. Ice-blue eyes were wide and pink lips were parted in surprise, and—most beautiful and majestic of all, Sandy thought with wonder—a pair of pure white angel wings were raised up behind him in a surprise reflex, white down feathers fluttering around him as a result of their sudden, rapid movement.

“Beautiful, isn’t he?” Pitch asked, walking into the room and taking a seat in an armchair, before looking at Sandy expectantly. Shakily the blonde stepped into the room, dazed as he raked his eyes over and over again all over the boy in the cage in awed disbelief— _this_ was a Sister of Flight; the _very first_ Sister of Flight he had ever laid his eyes on.

He was _beautiful_. His brother certainly knew how to look.

Trembling slightly, he turned to look at Pitch, who was smirking at him from his seat. “Well?” the black-haired man asked.

“… I, I… yes, he’s absolutely beautiful.” Sandy replied, his shoulders slumping as he looked back at the winged boy, who shied away from him and shuffled away from the bars of the cage to go hide in a pile of pillows he had piled at the far end of the cage as far away from the humans as possible. “But, Pitch, I thought only the females of their race have wings, why does he have wings?”

“He is an anomaly.” Pitch replied, “A beautiful, rare anomaly. You know I settle for no less.” He gestured at the boy, who hid away from him, trembling. Sandy frowned at this, and he looked back at his brother.

“… I see. So, I’ll be teaching him English. What languages does he speak?”

“His mother tongue and Russian, apparently.” Pitch replied, “You will not believe the difficulty I had just prying a name out of him—and I didn’t even get an answer from him.”

“So you gave him a name?” Sandy asked, inspecting the winged boy in his cage, who looked at him with both cautious and curious eyes.

“No. I heard it from his mother and sister when I took him away. His name is Jack.”

Sandy felt his blood boil at the sound of Pitch’s nonchalant tone. “Pitch,” he began to say, his tone rising, but his brother smirked at him, holding up a finger.

“Temper, Sanderson. What would your students think?”

Sandy’s hands balled into fists. He really, really wanted to punch this man, this rude, inconsiderate, _cruel_ man, but Pitch… Pitch was his brother. It was against his moral code to even hurt anyone physically, sinner or not.

Silently cursing his morality, Sandy turned on his heel and walked over to the cage where the boy—Jack, Sandy mentally corrected himself hid, peering out at him from beneath the sheets.

He knelt down and held onto the bar, looking at Jack with a most gentle expression. “ _Zdravstvuy, moy malʹchik_.” He said gently, and Jack inched out from beneath the sheets, but only just. “ _Ya ne prichinyu vam vreda_.”

“ _Vy mogli by lezhat_ ʹ.”

“ _Ya ne yavlyayus_ ʹ.”

Jack glared at him slightly, and Sandy sighed.

“ _Poslushay menya, ya_ …” he paused, peeking at Pitch, who was looking at them passively. “ _Ya obeshchayu , ya budu vas svobodnymi_.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “ _Vy budete_?”

Sandy nodded. “ _Da_.”

Jack looked at him for a moment, uncertain, but then his expression changed to one of resolve, and he nodded, the uneasy look in his eyes melting to one of fierce determination.

“ _Togda ya budu doveryatʹ vam_.” Jack nodded, and at this, Sandy noted, Pitch’s expression changed into a smirk.

He mentally steeled himself for the days to follow. What was he going to do about young Jack?

He peeked at his brother, who had decided to stand up and leave the room.

When Pitch’s back had turned to him, he glared at his brother, his resolve fully coming to his mind.

He was going to set this Sister of Flight free, at any cost.

He will not settle to let his brother win _this_ time around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations are in order!
> 
> Zdravstvuy, moy malʹchik - hello, my boy  
> Ya ne prichinyu vam vreda - I won't hurt you  
> Vy mogli by lezhat - you could be lying  
> Ya ne yavlyayus - I'm not.  
> Poslushay menya, ya… - Listen to me, I...  
> Ya obeshchayu , ya budu vas svobodnymi - I promise, I'll set you free.  
> Vy budete - you will  
> Togda ya budu doveryatʹ vam - then I shall trust you
> 
> Goodness, Jack. Learn English already!


	5. A Moment of Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Sandy befriend each other.
> 
> A new set of heroes enter the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy balls guise i'm alive hello hello
> 
> please enjoy this little peaceful little thing.
> 
> the worst is still to come for jack bb
> 
> Russian conversation pre-translated for your convenience.
> 
> Also, my author notes may look like I'm high and horrible at English, I assure you all my fic is nothing like my notes.

“Who are you, then?” Jack immediately piped up after Pitch had left, leaning forward to look at Sandy with big, curious eyes, surprising the blonde man at the sudden change in attitude of the boy. From intimidated and cautious, it was curious to see the boy immediately become trusting and curious.

“I’m… my name is Sanderson Mansnoozie.” He replied uneasily, “Call me Sandy.”

“San… dy.” Jack repeated slowly, and nodded. “I am Jack.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jack.” He replied, calming down. Well, it seemed at least the boy’s anger wasn’t directed at him. Sighing, he sat down cross-legged in front of the boy’s cage and crossed his arms lightly.

Jack shuffled a little closer to the bars and looked him over. “Are you a prisoner of that _man_ too?” he asked, spitting out the reference to Pitch like poison in his mouth. The blonde winced slightly at the venom in Jack’s tone, and shook his head

“No,” he paused. “Well, not exactly. Pitch wants me to teach you a language we’ll all be comfortable speaking.”

Jack scowled. “I don’t want to.” He stated simply, crossing his arms and looking off to the side, scoffing. “You said you will find a way for me out of here? Please, let’s discuss that instead.”

Sandy sighed and shook his head. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t pat the distressed boy reassuringly. He understood what kind of stress he must be in now—locked up in a cage with a most menacing man, in a land far away from his home, his parents—it was terrible, Sandy knew, but he didn’t know how to comfort the boy.

Rather, he didn’t know if comforting the boy would earn him a coffin and a tombstone.

Instead, he settled for feeling increasingly guilty when he saw Jack’s hopeful expression that had been blossoming slowly, wilt.

“Jack, I can’t set you free _right now_ ,” he desperately said, “Do you understand? If I do, he’ll know it’s me, and he’ll know where to look. I can’t get you out here fast enough.”

“I can fly,” Jack protested, but Sandy shook his head.

“There are many things here that can fly. Men, in planes. He’ll find you there, in the sky.” He warned, and Jack’s expression fell, the boy’s shoulders slumping down. “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to take this slowly, okay?”

Defeated, Jack sighed and looked at Sandy. “Who are you, Sandy?” he asked to change the topic. “What is your relationship with that man?”

It amused and saddened Sandy to realise Jack was refusing to even so much as mention Pitch’s name, but he decided not to bring that topic up so as not to offend the Sister of Flight.

“Well, Pitch, you see,” he sighed, laughing sheepishly. “He’s my brother.”

Jack’s eyes immediately hardened and he shuffled away, eyes filled with anger, and Sandy’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Wait!” he protested, waving his hands defensively. “We’re brothers, yes, but that doesn’t mean we get along!”

Jack eyed him uneasily, but seemed to calm down, his hands, poised to attack, to tear at Sandy (the blonde decided to pointedly keep his eyes _away_ from those dangerous things to not spook himself) lowering, but only slightly. Sighing, Sandy kept his hands up in defence, to assure Jack he wasn’t a bad man.

“Pitch… is my half-brother. We have the same father, but different mothers.” He confessed, blushing slightly in embarrassment. He rarely ever told other about his relationship with his brother, and he didn’t know if Jack was going to view him negatively about this. Thankfully, Jack didn’t seem to look down at his situation, and the boy nodded at him to continue. Sighing, Sandy lowered his hands. “We grew up together until Father died, and I left to live with my mother. We barely contacted each other after that.”

Jack was frowning. “My father told me families were supposed to stay together.”

Sandy smiled sadly at him. “Well, not this family.” He sighed, and Jack gave him a sad look, but said nothing on it.

“Well, I’m a scholar now,” Sandy continued, forcing a smile on his face to cheer up the boy he was talking to. “I study language and history at the nearby university.”

“A scholar,” Jack breathed, stars in his eyes. “I’ve never met one before.”

Sandy blinked. “Never?” he cocked his head, “But I thought… I thought the Sisters of Flight knew all the languages of the world? You must have had an academy of sorts, a kind of schooling…”

“There is,” Jack nodded, a sad expression crossing his face, “But I was never allowed to go there. My sister was, though, so I guess that’s okay, right?”

Sandy blinked. Selective schooling? How curious. “Why weren’t you allowed?”

Jack’s sad expression sent waves of sympathy rushing through Sandy’s heart.

“I was a mistake, they said.” He quietly said, and something inside Sandy stung.

 _“You and your mother… you two were just mistakes! Stupid, useless mistakes!_ ”

“… I know what _that_ feels like.” Sandy replied, downcast, and Jack looked at him, sympathy in his eyes.

“What are you studying right now?” he asked softly, desperate to change topic, and the blonde was more than willing to follow.

“Well, I’m actually studying about the Sisters of Flight.” He replied, and Jack’s eyes widened in surprise.

“About… us? But my mother told me you humans regarded us as legends… stories. That was how we are safe…” he paused, biting his lip. “… _Were_ safe.”

Jack’s correction of what he said sent a pang of disappointment through Sandy’s head, but he didn’t say anything about it.

“A lot of people still do believe you are just myths… of course, I was one of the few who didn’t, and so I decided to study your kind, looking through old archaeological records in the ruins at Punjam Hy Loo—”

Jack breathed something out in his mother tongue, and Sandy blinked at him. He sighed, and shook his head. “The OldLand. That is what we had called it. That was the first place where the Sisters convened, and that was how they learned to coexist with males. I thought… I thought that place was just stuff Mother used to tell me.”

Sandy smiled. “Looks like we proved something to each other today.” He chuckled, and Jack sent him a shy smile.

“That’s true.” He nodded. “So… would you like to learn more about us?”

Sandy blinked. “… You’d… you’d tell me?”

Jack smiled. “You are a scholar. You are wise, and you will do what is right with what you have learnt.” He stated. “I trust you; I’ll tell you about us, as long as you find a way to set me free.”

Sandy smiled; a true, relieved smile. The boy trusted him.

He was going to learn so much.

“You have a deal, my boy.” He grinned.

If his resolve wasn’t burning then, it sure was now—

“But,” he cut in. “While I learn about your kind, you can learn English too.” he said, and Jack pouted at him. “It’s a way to earn my brother’s trust, Jack.” He smiled, “Trust me.”

* * *

Perhaps it was too early for them to rise, the man thought bitterly, sitting up in his seat at the back of the musty jalopy, a scowl on his face as he belatedly realised that the old truck was moving. Groaning, he forced himself to get up, and uneasily he stumbled to the front, pulling the small window to the driver’s seat aside to open it.

“And who told you to drive?” he drawled, his accent thicker and he knew he must have sounded silly talking like that, but frankly, he didn’t care. The man driving the truck chuckled, and merely gestured at the seat next to him.

“Climb here, then, and let’s talk it over.” The black-haired man grinned, his Russian accent thick with amusement.

“Pull over.” He demanded, and the man shook his head.

“Can’t, the police are after us.”

 _That_ woke him up.

“What the bloody—North, what are you doing?” he yelled, pulling the window to the side fully and squeezing through it as he pushed North to the side so he could take the wheel. “For how long now?”

“Thirty minutes, give or take? You and Sophie were still asleep when we got tipped off.”

“Bloody hell,” the man murmured, slamming his foot down on the gas, earning him a loud blast of protest from his old girl but she sped down the highway, steadfast as ever. “I’m going to lose them; you head to the back and get Soph up. Get ready to bail if we have to.”

“Alright,” the man nodded and clambered to the back through the window as well. Shaking his head he turned his full attention back to the road.

E. Aster Bunnymund was a mercenary tougher than calluses on a rhino hind.

Damned if he would let some bobby take him in.

And in a country with roads thinner than even his apartment? Why not?

A smirk on his face, he silently thanked the Philippines for its slum areas.

It was time to get the old jalopy dirty again.

Little did he know what he was running himself into as he found himself heading straight to a certain black market…

* * *

Sandy had tried teaching Jack little by little, a few phrases at first, greetings and such, but the boy refused to speak English. On and on he chattered in Russian to him—about his mother, his sister, his father, his village—anything and _everything_ that had involved him, and silently Sandy regretted telling Jack his profession of studying his people’s history.

“Jack,” he sighed exasperatedly, for as much as he wanted to just listen, to _learn_ , he knew he had a deadline, and he was going to make as much of the two weeks he had as he could. “Please, you have to try to learn.” He pleaded, grateful that their conversation could not be understood by his brother, who had thankfully decided to leave more than three hours ago. He had relaxed a little back then, but now he grew more nervous—he was wasting time, he knew it, and he knew that Jack was stalling. While he understood that Jack wanted to stay with Sandy longer—or perhaps it was to _stay away from Pitch_ longer, he was rushing. He knew how difficult it was to learn a completely foreign language from scratch, and in such a short time? Nigh impossible.

“I refuse to,” Jack replied, resolute and determined, “I will not bend to that man’s wishes.” He crossed his arms, his wings fluttering in annoyance. “You said you will help me get out of here.”

“Yes, yes, I will,” Sandy nodded, “But not immediately, you know we have to gain his trust first.”

Jack frowned. “I don’t like this.” He grumbled, and unconsciously, Sandy reached between the bars and patted Jack’s head like he would when his RA would get stressed. It was when Jack had completely frozen under his touch, wings taut with surprise, what he had noticed, and with that he froze as well.

_Oh, God. I touched him without warning. Oh, God. He’s going to kill me. I knew it—_

Jack, much to his surprise, tentatively reached for his hands and held them down on his soft hair with equally soft hands. Embarrassed blue eyes looked up at him, a small shy smile forming on his lips.

“You’ve been kind to me, so don’t worry,” he said to Sandy, “I won’t hurt you.”

“Can’t say that you’ve tried that trick on my brother,” Sandy dryly chuckled, and Jack grinned at him, brightly and toothily, and there, Sandy saw the image of a young boy back during his times of happiness.

“Mother always said I was quite the trickster.” He snickered, and Sandy opened his mouth to reply, when he heard the door open behind them. His eyes widened and he made a move to get ready for Pitch’s sharp words when he realised it was just Angus standing by the door, holding a tray with a plate with some sandwiches on it, a bowl of salad and two glasses of water.

“Angus.” Sandy sighed, relieved it wasn’t his brother. “Hello, my boy.”

“Lunch.” The teen simply stated, and at that moment, Sandy’s stomach growled loudly. Embarrassed, the blonde blushed and the teen smiled lightly at him, putting the tray down on the nearby coffee table. “Bird-boy has food too.” he added, and Sandy looked at Jack, who glared at the redhead angrily. Nervous, Sandy peered at Angus, who was ignoring Jack, and gestured at the bowl of salad. “Yours.” He pointedly eyed Jack, “And don’t worry, I know what your kind eats.”

Jack blinked, and he looked at Sandy, who looked at him, equally confused, but when they turned to ask Angus what he had meant, the teen was already out the door and closing it behind him.

The two shared a glance at each other for a moment, before Sandy sighed.

“Well, food.” He shrugged, getting up and bringing the tray to them. “After this, English.”

“ _Nyet_ ,” Jack grinned, “More stories.”

“ _English_.” Sandy stressed, sternly looking at Jack, who only laughed at him lightly. “I mean it.”

“Alright, alright.” Jack grinned. “But afterwards, stories.”

“Only if you can tell me what your name is completely in English.”

Jack’s look reminded him so much of his students Sandy couldn’t resist a light laugh and patted Jack’s head again, before turning to his sandwiches.

Jack, on the other hand, had never felt so relaxed since the start of his entire ordeal. While he missed his mother, his father and Katherine dearly, he was grateful for Sandy’s kind company.

Eyeing Sandy over his bowl of salad, he gripped it unconsciously, nervously.

 _No, not yet,_ he thought to himself, blue magic crackling through the gaps between his fingers. _No magic; not until completely necessary._

He enjoyed Sandy’s company—cheating on English studies can wait a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also he's speaking a little formally because he's speaking in russian and the translation came out formal doop
> 
> also that jalopy scene was totally not inspired by tf2 what are you all talking about
> 
> send help i'm dyign


	6. Cry for Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandy moves a little forward with his progress.
> 
> The timer to salvation starts counting down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i heard the rotg fandom is in a bit of trouble so i wrote this to keep it up and running
> 
> so yep
> 
> also i changed the rating of this fic now because uncomfortable minor touching oooh
> 
> right, read on please

It was nearing sunset when Pitch returned to the study, a glass of water balanced in his slim hands as he eyed Sandy and Jack with narrowed golden eyes.

“Your time today is up, Sanderson.” He declared simply, as the blonde man sighed and shook his head, standing up. His actions made Jack jolt in surprise, and his hand shot out between the bars to grasp at the edge of Sandy’s shirt, pleadingly looking up at the man, ice-cold fear clear in the boy’s eyes.

Pitch sighed inwardly. What a beautiful expression of fear.

Outwardly, his expression remained stoic as he watched Sandy hush the fearful half-bird, pledges of his return in soft-spoken Russian to calm the boy down. Jack protested, pleading softly, but Pitch decided he had _quite_ enough.

He cleared his throat, catching their attention. “Sanderson.” He repeated, half-growling, and his brother immediately pulled away from Jack, causing the boy’s grip to loosen in surprise, small hands falling away from Sandy’s rumpled shirt. “Angus will be seeing you out. Good day.”

The blonde glared at him for a moment, before turning to Jack, smiling apologetically, before heading to the door, making sure to slam it behind him as he left.

Left alone with his new collection piece, Pitch eyed Jack, who was now shuffling back to the far end of the cage, away from him, ice-blue eyes glaring right at him. Angry, Jack looked majestic—like an eagle, eyes piercing and calculating, body tense in anticipation, ready to strike. The Sister of Flight looked every bit his race’s powerful and elegant characteristic, despite his small stature and boyish looks.

He had really bagged a treasure, he thought to himself, walking up to the cage to inspect Jack better, earning him a hiss of protest from the boy.

“ _No_.” he spat through grit teeth, and the corner of Pitch’s mouth twitched up in approval. So Sandy had at least achieved something today. Excellent.

The man smirked maliciously at Jack, whose glare slightly wavered in wariness at the man’s intent behind his smirk. “Excellent, you’re learning something,” he purred, leaning back as the boy dashed forward in an attempt to once again attack him, resulting in a failed swipe at his face. He had seen the attack coming seconds before it came—he had learnt from his past experience, after all, and used Jack’s surprise to his advantage, grasping the boy’s thin wrist tightly in an almost-bruising grip.

Jack let out a groan of pain, tugging at the iron grip on his wrist, wings fluttering behind him as he tried pulling away from the man.

“Still a little weak, my pet,” Pitch smirked, pulling Jack in tightly against the bars, earning him a delicious whine from the boy as he was crushed against the cold white metal. “You’re going to have to do better than that.” He purred, smoothing his thumb over soft, pale skin, earning him a glare from Jack as his other hand came up to try pushing Pitch’s off of him. Instead, Pitch grabbed that too, and joined it with its other in his hand. Jack glared at him, struggling all the more now, and Pitch smirked at his futile efforts.

“No,” Jack barked, shaking Pitch’s hand on his wrists, trying to get them off, as he twisted his hands in an attempt to get them free. The elder man chuckled darkly, as his other hand lowered and stroked at the boy’s side, sidling up the loose white shirt. The foreign, _unwanted_ sensation made Jack gasp and his cheeks colour in what seemed more like rage than what Pitch was feeling, and his struggles continued with a renewed, desperate vigour to get away from the man’s cold, dark touch.

Humming absently to rile up the boy’s fear, he followed Jack’s movements, drumming his cold fingers lightly up soft, warm skin until it reached the boy’s nipple, nimble fingers rubbing and teasing the soft flesh to involuntary hardness.

“No!” Jack gasped, wriggling away from Pitch’s hand, tears appearing at the corner of his eyes as his legs kicked wildly, trying to both kick Pitch away from him and propel him away from the man as far and as fast as he could.

Thankfully for Jack, one of his kicks landed on Pitch’s side, making the man let go of him in surprise. Immediately, Jack ran away from him, half-flying in desperation to get as far away from him as possible. The boy curled up in the pile of blankets left for him, visibly shaking and shaken, as whimpers floated out from beneath the white sheets to Pitch’s ear.

The man smirked.

This was going to be _fun_.

* * *

 

Sandy stormed out onto the lobby, angry at everything going on around him.

He _hated_ this; he didn’t want to leave Jack behind with that poor excuse of a man, he didn’t want to go without learning more about the Sisters of Flight, he didn’t want to feel all this _guilt_ for keeping quiet about everything, _damn it_ —

“Mr. Sanderson?” Angus’s voice called to him, and he snapped out of his rage-induced trance to see the redhead holding up his coat. “Your coat.”

“O-oh, right,” Sandy nodded, taking the coat from the young man. “Thank you, Angus, my boy.” The redhead nodded slowly, and began to walk towards the front door, when Sandy stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned around to see the man smiling apologetically at him.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, and Sandy sighed.

“I must ask a favour of you, Angus.” He replied, and the teen nodded, crossing his arms, relaxing his posture. “I’d like for you to watch over young Jack.” He said, and Angus raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I know it’s your job to watch over the collection items, but Jack’s different. You know how different.”

Angus hummed noncommittally, nodding, and Sandy sighed. Sometimes, he wished that this young man would be a bit more… expressive. Angus’s lack of participation in their conversation was anything but comforting. At least, he thought to himself, the boy wasn’t slicing him with that sharp tongue of his like he did with his employer.

“Pitch… he’s thinking dark things; dark, dark things, and… I’m worried about Jack.” Sandy continued. “I… I need you to keep Jack safe, as much as you can.”

Angus studied him for a moment, before nodding. “I’ll do what I can.” He replied simply, before heading towards the door again, untying his red sweater from his waist and tugging it on. “It’s almost 6, Mr. Sanderson; you should head back to the university before the labs close.”

“Angus,” Sandy sighed, walking up to the teen, grasping his shoulders. “Please.”

The boy studied his expression blankly, with cool amber eyes, and a small smile crossed his face.

“I’ll do what I can.” He repeated, gently pulling Sandy’s hands off his shoulders. The man gave him a crestfallen expression, but he shook his head. “Please, Mr. Sanderson. Before Pitch comes back.”

The blonde looked down at the young man, surprised at the soft tone of pleading in the boy’s thickly-accented voice. “Angus, has Pitch…?”

“No,” the boy answered quickly, ushering Sandy out the door. “Good evening, Mr. Sanderson. Have a safe trip back to the university.”

The blonde opened his mouth to speak, but Angus closed the door on him, cutting off their conversation abruptly. Frowning, Sandy stared at the door for a moment.

First, he had been worried about Jack, but now even Angus seemed to have some problem. Sighing, he shook his head and rubbed his forehead.

He was going to get old _very_ quickly like this. Pulling on his coat, he walked over to where his car was parked (a little Mini Cooper in a mild yellow-gold colour) and climbed in. Sitting at the driver’s seat, he mentally debated on what to do—but then he sighed. Might as well get things done as fast as he could. Starting up the engine with one hand, he accessed his contacts on his phone in the other, calling a number and setting the phone on loudspeaker before setting it on the dashboard next to a bobble head he got from his RA’s last Christmas.

“ _Hello? Where have you been all day, Mr. Mansnoozie?_ ”

“Hi, Jamie,” the blonde winced; suddenly realising he had failed to tell his RA where he would be for the entire day. “Are you still at the office?” he asked, as he drove out of the driveway and into the road, heading back to the university.

“ _Since 9 this morning. Mind telling me why you haven’t texted?_ ”

“Sorry, I… I got caught up in a bit of trouble. Look, about that trip we’re taking to the Philippines,” he swallowed, “We’re going to have to cancel.”

“ _What? But I was so looking forward to get somewhere warm! Glasgow isn’t exactly sunny-sunny, Mr. Mansnoozie!_ ”

“I know, I’m sorry, but we’ve… we’ve got a situation here.”

“ _What’re you talking about? We’re almost there; actually going to where the Sisters reside is a good idea to proceed in the research, you know._ ”

“Yes, well… what if I told you I have a… informant?” he chose his words carefully; he really wasn’t sure on what to call Jack, and he had definitely no idea how to tell Jamie he was now involved in the illegal detention of a human.

“ _What do you mean informant, Mr. Mansnoozie?_ ”

“I… don’t freak out, alright? Are you alone in the office?”

No reply came, but he could hear doors closing, and the tell-tale _click_ of a lock told him Jamie most likely moved to Sandy’s private office.

“ _Now I am. What’s the matter, Mr. Mansnoozie?_ ”

“I met a Sister of Flight.”

The gasp and the stifled yell he heard over the line would have been hilarious had he not been in such a sticky situation, but Sandy was glad for the brief comic relief.

“Jamie? You still breathing?”

“ _They’re… they’re_ real?” the young man asked, his tone full of wonder, like as if he had caught Santa red-handed in the act of delivering presents. “ _Really, really_ real?”

“Realer than real can get,” Sandy replied, “Which now brings us to the problem. The Sister of Flight’s in a bit of a difficult situation.”

Jamie probably didn’t catch what he said, though, when he spoke up again. “ _Wait, the Sisters aren’t migratory. How the heck did she get all the way here to Scotland?_ ”

“That’s where I’m getting to, Jamie. There’re two things that are pretty difficult about this entire thing: one, the sister of flight is a male.”

“ _Wingless? That’s boring._ ”

“Nope, you’re wrong. He’s apparently an anomaly, kind of like the black sheep of his race: he’s winged, Jamie, and he can most definitely fly.”

“ _Oh my God._ ”

“Indeed. I didn’t think it was possible; heck, I didn’t even think we’d actually find one!” he laughed weakly.

“ _Wait, what’s difficult about that? I mean, so what if he’s a guy?_ ”

“He’s an outcast of his civilisation, apparently, they have an actual education system and everything, and he’s not accepted as one of them. His family’s actually shunned because of him and his father, apparently. His father’s a foreigner, so it was probably natural of the Sisters to be wary of him.”

“ _Who knew the Sisters were xenophobic_?” Jamie laughed, amused, and Sandy sighed.

“Well, that brings us to our second problem: How did he get here? Well… he was shipped here. As a purchased item.”

“… _Excuse me?_ ”

“Our second problem is that he’s purchased property—illegally, mind you—by none other than Mr. Pitch Black, the Nightmare King.”

“ _Your_ brother?” Jamie gasped incredulously from the other side. “ _How on Earth—_?”

“I don’t know either, and that’s what I’m trying to get fixed. I managed to make a deal with the Sister of Flight. I said I was going to break him out of there, and in return, he’d help us with our research.”

“ _Going a little manipulative there, Mr. Mansnoozie._ ”

“Oh, what else could I do?” Sandy sighed, “Well, anyway. I have a week to bust him out of there, and in order to do that, I’m going to need your help.”

“ _Don’t you worry, Mr. Mansnoozie! Setting precious things free is what I’d love doing if I wasn’t already here in the research schtick._ ”

“That’s my boy,” Sandy chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “Right, ask around for any shady black market purchases in Asia, and ask around for the Sister of Flight’s parents. I need you to make calls. I understand you have friends in the… investigative business?”

It was rampantly known in the research lab that Jamie had _interesting_ contacts. Being one who was very close to his childhood friends, he still had contacts with each and every one of them, and some of them were involved in both the MI6 and the CIA. Sandy even heard that one of Jamie’s childhood friends was a bounty hunter, and he sometimes wondered how on Earth such a timid guy like Jamie ended up with friends like those.

“ _Oh, yeah, I’ll give Monty a call. Maybe he’s got friends in Asia who could help._ ”

“Thanks so much, Jamie.” Sandy sighed, “I’m sure Jack would appreciate your help.”

“ _Oh, his name’s Jack? Did Pitch give that to him or something?_ ”

“No, that’s his birth name. He has a sister, Katherine, and he told me his mother’s name is Toothiana.”

“ _Toothiana. Weird name._ ” Jamie hummed, “ _Sounds like something traditionally Sisters of Flight, though. Right, I’ll ring some friends and ask them about this Toothiana. Her name sounds pretty unique, and I’m sure she’ll pop up more hits than Katherine and Jack._ ”

“Great.” Sandy smiled, “Remember, we only have a week to get Jack out of there.”

“ _You can count on me, Mr. Mansnoozie._ ” Jamie’s grin could practically be heard from across the line. “ _I’ll help you set Jack free._ ”

“Thank you so much, Jamie.” Sandy sighed, bidding his RA goodbye, before hanging up, slumping back in his seat as he came to a stop at a red light. Looking outside, he wondered where in the world were Jack’s parents, and how much the boy missed them.

He knew how much _that_ hurt, after all, because, really, he and Jack were more similar than one would think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jamieeeeeeeeeeeeeeee bb yissssss 
> 
> they're not kids anymoreeeeeeeeeee
> 
> so yep jamie's friends have all gone to very different careers now and they're all over the place so he's got quite the connection web.
> 
> he's the best /sobs


	7. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope comes and goes, quickly for some, slowly for others.
> 
> The timer has suddenly slowed down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow ok it's been two months how are you rotg fandom i'm so sorry for taking forever 
> 
> i blame off and tf2 and school i'm so gomen rotg i still love y'all and i'm still writing this fic look a new chapter
> 
> i hope you guys enjoy it please keep it up you're all wonderful
> 
> also enjoy cupcake/jamie
> 
> and i may or may not have learned how to make horrible things happen because off

“Wow, okay, so you’re telling me there haven’t been any pops on the radar lately?”

“ _Nope, sorry, Jamie._ ” Monty’s apologetic tone on the other side of the phone spoke up, “ _Looks like this purchase was a cash one, and probably shipped via a private jet rather than a normal one._ ”

Jamie frowned, taking a tentative sip at the steaming mug of coffee (decaf, three sugars, and lots of creamer) he held up to his lips as he leant against his professor’s desk, golden sunshine rays streaming in through the blinds behind him, where outside, some students were playing football in the field.

“What makes you say that?”

Monty laughed, “ _Well, it’s pretty hard to smuggle living things on planes, Jamie. Smugglers and black market dealers have to think better than that—especially if they’re smuggling people. Which reminds me, why are you asking for FBI smuggling files if you’re looking for_ people _, of all things?_ ”

“Oh, no big deal,” Jamie quickly replied, stiffening up in nervousness. He had been so very careful _not_ to tip anyone off about the Sister of Flight—Jack, he reminded himself, in the Black manor right there in Glasgow. When Sandy left the laboratory that morning, he left not without a very stern warning to him that he should never speak of their discovery to anyone.

A lot of people had asked about the cancelled trip, though. The excuse they came up with was that Sandy had a few health problems he had come across.

Health problems, bah! Jamie had rolled his eyes as Sandy feigned a few coughs, but somehow the people in the lab bought his act. Sandy was the healthiest person on their team; sickness was just utter bull to him.

Jamie did a double take—he wasn’t usually this crabby, it was probably the lost chance of a lovely, welcome change in climate that was doing this to him.

Monty’s tone in his ear was speculative. “ _… Right. Okay?_ ”

“I mean it,” Jamie pressed, taking a sip of his coffee. “Who’d you think I can ask, then?”

“ _Hm. What about Cupcake?_ ”

Jamie chuckled, “Oh, come on. I’m sure she’d be too busy to help me out, man.”

“ _Psh. You know what she’s like. I bet she’ll just drop whatever the heck she’s doing and—_ ” he abruptly stopped, and Jamie raised an eyebrow.

“Monty? You there, buddy?”

“ _I heard you needed help?_ ”

A flustered grin spread across Jamie’s face as he laughed into the rim of his mug.

“Cupcake. Hi,” he greeted, chuckling as he shook his head fondly. Monty must have rung her up while they were talking, the sneaky bastard.

“ _Hi, it’s been a while since you called_.”

“Sorta,” he replied, just as there came knocks on the door and it opened a little to reveal Pippa peering in. He gave her a little wave, and she pointed at his phone at his ear.

“ _Who’s that_?” she mouthed, as she slipped into the room, heading for the cabinet on the far side to reach for a particular book.

“Cupcake,” Jamie replied.

“ _Who was that?_ ” she asked from the other side.

“Pippa.” The girl in question grinned, and approached him.

“Hi, Cupcake!” she greeted into the phone, before giving Jamie a mock-salute, and heading back out the door.

The brunet shook his head fondly, as Cupcake chuckled in his ear.

“She just came to say hi.” He told her. “So, about the help I was looking for…”

“ _You need help finding something, I’m guessing—following a money trail_.”

“I know how good you are at it,” he grinned, and she laughed.

“ _You bet. It’s going to cost you, though._ ”

He sighed. “Yeah, I know. Can’t be helped, it’s what you make a living out of. How mu—”

“ _Have lunch with me._ ” she simply said, “ _That’s your payment. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay? I’m a little busy right now, I’m stuck in obscure warehouse in Istanbul and the cold is_ freezing _all my fingers off, I swear to God._ ”

“Whoa, wait, Istanbul? But we’ll meet up tomorrow—”

“ _Yes, exactly. How about that lovely little café across the campus, eh? I like their house blend there. See you at 11 tomorrow_!”

“H-hey, wait,”

“ _Don’t worry about it,_ ” her smile could practically be heard over the phone, “ _Just go out with me._ ” a moment’s pause, “ _For lunch. Sounds good_?”

Jamie laughed lightly. “I, I guess?”

“ _Awesome. Can’t wait_.” She immediately hung up, and Jamie was about to do the same, when Monty suddenly spoke up again.

“ _Oooh, someone’s got a date_.”

“Shut up,” Jamie laughed, shaking his head, “Bye, Monty.”

“ _Tell me all about your date when you can, loverboy._ ”

“Ew, go away,” he laughed, before hanging up, turning to see Pippa peeking at him from the door. “Hey, what’s up? I thought you were doing something?”

“Oh, well, I just got curious.” She stammered, a slight flush of embarrassment crossing her cheeks as Jamie pulled the door open. “You never call Monty or Cupcake unless you were looking for something… I don’t know, dangerous?” she half-hissed the word, her expression scrunching up slightly, as she waved her hands a little to emphasize her point.

“Psh, no way. I was just, um.” He paused, searching his head for a reason to tell her, but all he could he could think of is the truth. “Y’know,” he bit his lip, and Pippa raised an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms. “Looking for… Sisters of Flight.” He ended in an embarrassed mumble. He wasn’t really telling her a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. He itched to tell her; he had been raised not to lie to friends, but Jack’s welfare depended on it—and if anyone else found out about him, God knows what trouble his team could get into like this.

In hindsight, that sounded pretty ridiculous.

“… Someone’s desperate,” she said after a while, grinning eventually, “Cancelled trip get to your head a bit?”

Jamie laughed weakly, “Ah, yeah, maybe…”

Pippa giggled, and shook his head. “Oh, God, you’re hysterical, Jamie. If you wanted sunshine, just head outside.” She grabbed his arm and tugged at it. “C’mon, I think you need some sunlight to make up some sugar, you silly plant.”

“Oh, no,” Jamie laughed, but he let her pull him along, “You did _not_ just science on me, Pippa.” He chided her good-naturedly, and she just laughed it off.

“Bite me,” she snapped back quickly, as the two friends left the lab.

Everyone but Jamie could see Pippa smiling brighter than she usually did.

* * *

The moment Sandy laid his eyes on Jack, he knew something went wrong last night. The boy was curled up in the corner of his cage, his wings furled on top of him like some protective shield, his pillows and blankets wrapped all around like a fort, his breakfast bowl sitting untouched at the side of the cage.

The two of them stepped into the room, and Sandy came to a stop the moment he saw Jack. His heart sank to his stomach, as he turned to look at Angus, unsure. The boy simply avoided his gaze, and turned away from him, the garden shears in his hand glinting in what little sunlight had hit it through the stained glass window they stood next to.

“Angus…”

“I’ll be back for lunch,” the teen spoke up, turning sharply away from him. The blonde man frowned, but said nothing as he watched Angus turn and leave.

Angus’s bored ‘bye’ was the last thing he heard before the silent whisper of slicked metal against metal rubbing each other in the sure-sound of a lock clicking into place

“Jack, I’m back.” Sandy smiled reassuringly as best as he could the moment the door slid shut behind him, as he approached the pile of feather and silk that was Jack, gently kneeling down in front of the cage in front of the bowl of vegetables, wrapping one hand around one ivory-white bar.

The boy lifted his head slightly, his blanket still hanging on top of his head. His ice-blue eyes were sullen, dark rings under them, and they were red and puffy. Alarm bells were going off left and right in Sandy’s head but he didn’t say anything about it—the last thing he wanted happening was accidentally triggering the poor boy; he’d already been through too much, there was no need to rub more salt into burning-hot wounds.

“Come closer here, please. I have something to tell you.” He said to him, offering him a kind hand as he tried his best to sound soft and gentle, even past his rather brusque Russian speak, “I’m sure you’ll like what I have to say.”

Jack, frowning, and unsure, hesitantly shuffled towards him, and sad eyes looked into his.

“… What is it?” he asked, his voice quiet and raspy. It didn’t suit him, Sandy thought with disdain.

“You’re going to be free soon.” Sandy told him quietly, “My research assistant and I are working to set you free: we’re finding where your mother and sister are, and by the end of this week, I swear, I am going to personally free you from here.”

The winged boy’s haunted expression brightened into one so full of hope as he spoke every single word he spoke, and Sandy couldn’t help but smile as happiness filled Jack’s eyes. He noticed his hands shaking as he gripped the bars, but he knew he had a tendency to get too excited over every tiny little thing, and _this_ was hardly _tiny_.

(He failed to notice, however, a shadow looming at the window, and the room’s temperature steadily dropping.)

“Really, Sandy? Am I really going home?”

“Of course.” He smiled, nodding. “I’m going to make sure of that, so don’t you worry.” Sandy couldn’t help the swelling happiness inside him—it was like Jack’s hope was contagious.

(Or, perhaps, it was that blue sparking at the boy’s fingertips, and the light fern-pattern frost that started appearing on the cage’s bars.)

“I don’t have to go through this, then?” he asked, and Sandy nodded.

“I need to buy time, though. Can you do that for me?” he asked kindly, carefully. “We’re going to need a little more time to track your mother down, but I promise you it’ll be fast. Knowing Jamie, I _know_ it’ll be fast.”

“Anything, I don’t mind,” Jack hurriedly replied, “All I want is to see my mother and Katherine again, and—”

“Jack, calm down,” Sandy chuckled kindly, “And take a few breaths. You’re going to have to be strong for us, okay? Not just for my assistant and I, you have to be strong for yourself. And your family.”

Jack nodded, resolute, with renewed vigour in his eyes, and Sandy smiled, settling back against the back of a nearby armchair, and pulled out a notebook.

“So, in the meantime, I suppose we could talk about your family?”

Jack, grinning brightly, nodded, and began to talk, happily, with no intention of stopping as in the back of his mind, he thought of how his mother used to thank people around them.

And then he realised the room was growing colder every minute, and Jack came to a realisation—

His magic was working again.

He could do that lovely little trick his mother taught him, then. There was no Council to get into trouble with, and it would save Sandy the trouble of speaking to him in Russian, and maybe impress him while he was at it.

The trickster in him renewed, and alive once more, Jack’s talk grew more animated as he recounted to Sandy everything about his village, waiting for the proper chance.

“Oh, hey, come a little closer, I want to show you a little trick,” he snickered, and Sandy did so. “You know how we could do magic and such?” he asked, and he held up his hand, blue sparks flying off the tips, and Sandy’s eyes widened.

“That’s…”

“Mother always told me that I was really good at tricks,” he chuckled, “I’m an Ice elemental—pretty rare, actually, since we used to live in the forest, where it was always hot. We would huddle around me to cool off on hot days.” He snickered, at the fond memory, as he formed a large snowflake in his hands. “See?”

“Wow,” Sandy breathed, reaching for it, but the moment his finger touched a delicate arm of the snowflake, it melted and fell down to Jack’s palm.

“Sorry about that,” he grinned, “Not really in full control of what I can do yet,” he shrugged, “I’m trying to fix it, but—”

The temperature spiked suddenly, and the snowflake melted instantly in Jack’s hand.

The two stared at it in stunned silence as the biting cold of the room reduced into a comfortable warmth, bewildered eyes staring right at each other.

(Completely missing out the eventually diminishing yellow-orange glow on the locked doorknobs behind Sandy.)

“… See what I mean?” Jack grinned after a while, and Sandy couldn’t help but laugh. “What I _am_ good at, though, is _this_.”

He leant forward, grabbing Sandy’s collar and pulling him in, mashing their lips together.

The professor’s eyes widened, as he scrambled backwards, horror clear on his face.

“J-Jack! What on Earth was that?!” he yelled in English, too flustered to process any other language, and Jack simply snickered.

“What on Earth was what?” he replied in completely straight English, and Sandy’s eyes widened, his jaw falling lax.

“You’re…”

“Speaking _perfect_ English.” Jack grinned.

“No…”

“What? Isn’t it convenient?” Jack shrugged, smiling. “Now you don’t have to work so hard to talk to me.”

“No, I mean—”

“Do I hear what I am hearing?” Pitch’s voice boomed through the hallways, the walls shaking despite his calm tone, and Jack jumped in alarm, as the door opened to reveal the tall man, who stepped in, a clearly amused expression on his face. “ _Perfect_ English, now? How fascinating.”

“Pitch,” Sandy began to angrily say, getting up from where he sat, but the man held a finger up to him to silence him.

“It seems your services are no longer required, _dear brother_.” The man smirked, turning to look icily at him, and Sandy opened his mouth to protest, when he felt a firm grip on his arm, and he turned his head to look at Angus, the teen pointedly avoiding his gaze, biting his lip in a clear show of discomfort.

“I swear, if you so much as—”

“Yes, yes, whatever, Sanderson,” Pitch dismissed, waving his hand at him, “Good-bye now.”

“Now, just a minute here—” Sandy began to say, when a stifling heat seared up his arm. His eyes widened and he looked down at Angus, who was now gripping his arm with a white-knuckled grip.

“We should go, Mr. Sanderson.” He said past grit teeth, before pulling him with him out the door.

The door shut right before Sandy’s eyes as his heart fell to his stomach once more, all sense of hope burning up in the heat in his gut and his arm as he was led away from the Nightmare King’s study.


End file.
